Behind Blue Eyes
by truetabularasa
Summary: Modern AU. Tom's been a loyal employee at Bates Security for years, and he thought he'd seen it all. But when he and a team of specially trained agents are hired to protect the renowned Crawley family of Downton Abbey, he'll that the world, and the people in it, are almost never as they seem.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey or the characters. I'm just having fun. _

_Note: I have not written anything in months. My plan is for me to post a chapter a week (on Fridays, apparently) until this is finished. Enjoy :)  
_

* * *

Tom's in the middle of breakfast when the phone rings. After a quick glance at the caller ID, he answers. "Bit early, isn't it, Mr. Bates?" He's sure that his employer can hear his smirk through the phone.

"We've got a job," Bates says without preamble.

Immediately, Tom sits up straighter in his chair. Mr. Bates rarely ever calls him up at home to tell him about a job, so it must be something good. If Tom is honest with himself, the phone call comes as a relief. For the past two months, it's been nothing but miniscule jobs, and, while nice for paying the bills, it's been a bit boring. But whenever a job warranted a phone call, it could only mean that the job was a big one.

"Finally," he says, relief evident in his tone. "What is it?"

There's a tense silence, and Tom feels his hackles go up. "Mr. Bates? What is it? What's the job?"

Mr. Bates sighs, as if he's readying himself for something unpleasant. "The man I spoke to on the phone was a Mr. Carson. He's an employee of the Crawley family."

Shocked, Tom laughs. It's not a pleasant feeling. "You're kidding." Bates isn't laughing, and that, more than anything, convinces him that Bates isn't playing some sick joke on him. Not that Bates is the joking type, but one can hope. "Not _the _Crawley family? The bloody aristocrats?" There's no need to specify _which _aristocrats. There's only one family that continually makes it into the paper (including the paper Tom has in front of him).

Bates sighs. "Branson, I know you're not fond of Lord Grantham and his policies—" Tom scoffs. That's an understatement, and he suspects Bates knows it. "—but the entire Crawley family has been receiving threats on their lives, and we have been hired to protect them until further notice, and while we are under their employment, you will keep your politics to yourself."

Tom knows an order when he hears one, but he still can't stop himself from arguing. "And why, knowing my politics and my feelings of that wretched family, have you assigned me to this job? Why not Thomas?"

"Would you trust Thomas in a house like that?" Well, Tom can concede that point. "He's good at his job, but he's been known to be dishonest, and this is a delicate client. However, although the family itself is not overlarge, a major part of our responsibility will be the estate of Downton Abbey. We'll have a team of twelve, you will be one of them, and you will behave."

"You can count on me, sir," Tom sighs. He says his goodbyes to his employer and hangs up the phone. This is not the news he was hoping to hear today, not at all, but, when it comes down to it, he's known Bates for years, and he has a fierce sense of loyalty towards the man.

Tom folds his morning paper, and he pauses. The entire front page is dedicated to a story on the Crawley family. Six children were killed in London last week, and the paper finds it necessary to dedicate a page to the engagement of one of the bloody aristocrats. Taking up more than half the page is a large photo of the entire family: the stern Lord Grantham and his wife, and their three daughters. The tallest, and the most easily recognizable, is Mary Crawley. It's her and her upcoming wedding that the article focuses on. As the oldest, she's the one who's following in her father's footsteps, and it is generally accepted that she'll be taking over his business when he retires.

Edith Crawley, the second daughter, and the only blonde, transferred to America shortly after coming of age. She returned to the country for her sister's wedding.

The youngest daughter is Sybil Crawley. Of the three daughters, she seems to be the one most eager to make her own way. Not much is known about her, because she, like Edith, tends to keep out of the spotlight.

Chucking the paper in the bin, Tom swipes his keys from the table and makes his way to work.

Bates Security was started by Mr. Bates's father, and, when he died, John Bates took over the business. Mr. Bates had been injured on a job and he was left with a permanent limp as a reminder. However, Tom had never met a more dedicated and hardworking man, and Bates personally oversees every one of their jobs.

Mr. Bates has already managed to meet up with the butler in person and discuss the job, and the plan for the Crawley family, as Mr. Bates explains, is for six of the bodyguards to be assigned to a different member of the family when they go out and about, and the other six are to stay on the grounds at all times.

At midday, Tom and Mr. Bates set off in the first of six identical cars and make their way to Downton Abbey. Tom had never in his life imagined being on an actual estate, and, despite himself, he has to admit that the place is very aesthetically pleasing. The grounds are expansive (although, Bates assures him, not as large as they had once been) and well-kept. The house, if it could even be called that, is ridiculous. From what Bates had told them, the Crawley family consisted of the Lord and Lady Grantham, their three daughters, and Lord Grantham's mother along with a small handful of staff. Not enough to fill up all those rooms.

"What do they need all those bloody rooms for?" Tom wonders aloud.

Bates's disapproving gaze burns into him. "It's not for us to say, Branson," he says finally. Tom grits his teeth and keeps driving.

The pull up in front of the house and the imposing front door is opened by a large and severe looking man Tom doesn't recognize. This must be Mr. Carson, the butler. Of course, the staff never makes it into the media. Carson is followed by the Crawley family.

Lord Grantham greets them with a polite smile. "You must be Mr. Bates," he says, striding towards Bates with his hand outstretched.

"Yes, sir," Bates says, returning the handshake. "And this is my security team. They should prove efficient."

"I'm sure they will," the Earl says. "This is my wife, Cora," a tall pale woman with dark hair, blue eyes, and a kind smile, "and my daughters Mary, Edith, and Sybil." As he introduces each woman, he gestures to them, and they give cordial nods as their names are spoken. "And, of course," the Earl continues, "you've met our butler, Mr. Carson."

"I remember," Bates says. "It's nice to see you again, Mr. Carson."

"Likewise, sir," Carson says, offering a cursory nod but nothing more. A true professional, Tom notes.

"Now, Mr. Bates, would you like to walk us through your plan for the estate?"

"Certainly," Bates says. He moves to take a step forward, but a soft voice speaks up.

"Papa, I can't stay." It's Sybil. Everyone turns their attention on the youngest Crawley. She is unfazed by the sudden attention. "I have a meeting in Ripon, remember?" she prompts. Judging by her father's aggrieved expression, he does remember.

Turning to Bates, he says, "Would it be possible for one of your men to escort Sybil to her meeting?"

Bates nods. Truthfully, there is no need for any of the daughters to be present for Bates's explanations, and, in removing one of the daughters from the equation, it can only make the whole operation go smoother. "Of course. Mr. Branson can take her."

Sybil's blue eyes widen in indignation. "I can drive myself!"

"Not for the time being," Lord Grantham says. "Until this threat is passed, we shall all be assisted by security. You know this, Sybil. We discussed this last night."

To that, Sybil has no response, although it is clear that she's not pleased and just doesn't want to cause a scene. Judging by the faces of the other two daughters, they're not too pleased with the arrangement either. They're just too polite to say anything.

Satisfied with Sybil's lack of response, Lord Grantham turns back to Bates. "You were saying one of your men could take her?" he prompts.

"Yes," Bates says. "Mr. Branson will take her." Bates gestures to Tom, who takes the hint and steps forward, bowing his head respectfully.

"Alright," Sybil says. "Can you wait here? I have to get my bag." This, she directs to Tom. He nods again, biting down on his tongue to hold in a scathing retort, and Sybil turns on her heel and disappears inside the massive house. The rest of the family, along with Mr. Bates's team, soon follow her, and Tom is left by himself. Not for long, though. Sybil reappears shortly, a book bag slung over one shoulder.

"Shall we go, then?" she asks, her voice holding more cheer than it had before she had gone inside. Thank heavens for that. Working under the aristocrats, the very people Tom can't stand, is hard enough. If his charge turns out to be difficult, it would make it unbearable.

"Right away, Miss," Tom says, inwardly cringing at how pretentious he sounds as he opens the rear door for Miss Crawley.

Hesitating before getting in the car, Sybil meets his eyes and says, "You can just call me Sybil, Mr. Branson."

Honestly, Tom would like nothing more than to dispense with the formalities. However, "I don't think my employer would approve of that, Miss."

Sybil nods, thoughtful. "How about when it's just the two of us, then?"

A grin breaks out across Tom's face. The first real smile since the morning. "That sounds like a fine plan…Sybil." A full smile appears on Sybil's face, and the change it makes is astonishing. Blue eyes light up, and Tom swears he can feel his heart stutter. A typical response when met by a pretty girl. Sybil ducks into the car, and Tom recollects himself and quickly shuts the door behind her.

As Tom pulls down toward the end of the drive, he realizes that he doesn't know where Sybil's meeting is being held. "Where to?" he asks.

"Just make for Ripon," Sybil says. She sounds distracted, and a quick glance in the mirror shows that she is busily digging through her bag. "I'll direct you from there."

The drive continues in silence for a while. Sybil's got a book out, and she's marking it up with a red pen. Almost as if she senses his gaze, she glances up and says, "I hope I didn't offend you earlier. My attitude could admittedly be better about the whole 'being driven about' thing."

"I wasn't offended," Tom assures her. "Although, I would've thought your lot would be used to 'being driven about.'" And then he stops abruptly. He had forgotten himself for a second. Just because she had asked him to call her by her first name did not give him the right to speak so openly and in such an insulting manner. Not if he wanted to keep his job, at any rate.

But Sybil surprises him by laughing. "No, I'm afraid not, Mr. Branson," she giggles. "We're aristocrats title only, thank goodness. Otherwise, I imagine I'd be terribly bored with my life. And I like my independence," she continues. "We all do, really. The only reason we all moved back to the estate is because of the threats against our family. "Mama was worried, and Papa does whatever she demands."

"And your sister, Edith," Tom says, "she moved all the way from New York because of these threats?"

"You've done your research!" Sybil sounds delighted, and Tom doesn't have the heart to tell her all his "research" on her family consists of perusing articles in the paper. "But no. Edith came home because Mary is getting married, and, although my sisters will never be friends, she would never ignore an invitation to the wedding."

Conversation tapers off, and they finish the drive to Ripon in silence. When they arrive, Sybil leans forward, crossing her arms on the back of Tom's seat and murmurs directions into his ear. This close to Sybil, Tom can smell her shampoo, some sort of floral concoction, and that, combined with the tickle of her warm breath against his ear, distracts Tom enough that he doesn't realize it when they reach their destination. It's not until Sybil's stepping out of the car and Tom scrambles after her that he realizes where she's been directing him.

A gym.

Tom shoots a surprised look at Sybil and finds her grinning at him.

"I've been taking self-defense classes," she explains.

"And your father doesn't know," Tom guesses.

"Papa would throw a fit," she says. "I suggested the idea to Mary and Edith, but neither of them are really the physical type, but I feel useless with this serious threat looming over us and no way to defend myself." Sybil bites her lip and stares into the distance before bringing herself back to the present. "They don't know I've pursued this. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to anyone."

"My lips are sealed," Tom says.

Satisfied, Sybil turns towards the glass door, hoisting her bag high on her shoulder, and Tom follows at a respectable distance. Before Sybil enters the gym, she turns to face Tom and says, "Do you have a first name, Mr. Branson?"

"It's Tom," he says, not bothering to cloak his surprise at her interest.

"May I call you Tom?"

"I'd prefer it, actually," Tom confesses.

Sybil laughs. The sound is refreshing. "Alright," she says. "It's almost as if you and I were real people," she teases.

Tom shakes his head as he follows her into the gym.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you guys for the reviews and expressing an interest. It honestly means more than you guys know._

* * *

Sybil's class only lasts an hour, but it is the longest hour of Tom's life.

Well, okay, that may be a bit of an exaggeration. But it is dull. He's supposed to be protecting the youngest daughter of the Earl of Grantham, and it wouldn't exactly be prudent to bring a book whilst on duty. So Tom watches the people. He doesn't go in to watch Sybil's class, at her request (and, as she says, not much could go wrong in the enclosed room), but he watches the people who go into Sybil's class, and the ones that pass him by. Most give him a wide berth, and Tom resigns himself to the knowledge that these people probably assume he's some sort of sick pervert.

Finally, Sybil emerges with the rest of her class. She's chatting amiably with a cheerful looking redhead. Spotting Tom, she leads her friend over and says, "Tom, this is Gwen. Gwen, Tom Branson. He's the man I was telling you about."

"Pleasure to meet you," Tom offers his hand, and Gwen accepts.

"We met in our Women's Studies class at university," Sybil explains. "Gwen," she turns to her friend, "can we drive you somewhere?"

"Well, I could go for a coffee, actually," Gwen admits.

"There's a café down the street," Sybil points out. "Tom, care to join us?"

"Gladly," Tom says. He knows that Sybil's just inviting him to be polite, but he appreciates the gesture.

The girls start to make their way down the corridor to the locker room, and Tom follows at a respectful distance. He can hear Gwen asking Sybil about Mary's wedding plans, but he doesn't hear the answer. With yet more time to himself, Tom pulls a small notebook out of his pocket and jots down a couple of notes. He'll be sure to speak to Mr. Bates about this Gwen person. Not that he suspects Gwen of any wrongdoing. Quite the opposite, actually. It's merely procedure to keep the team fully informed on the company their clients choose to keep. And, of course, Tom will inevitably have to face the usual teasing from Alfred when he brings out his notebook. But Tom's not bothered. He chooses to write all his notes the old fashioned way, so what? Alfred can take his fancy new phone and shove it up his-

"Can I help you, sir?" Tom startles out of his thoughts by a middle-aged blonde woman. She's wearing a blue shirt with the logo from the gym on the front. An employee, then.

Straightening himself up against up against the wall, Tom fumbles for an excuse. For the safety of the Crawley family, he can't exactly come out and say he's Sybil's bodyguard, but Tom's unused to his presence being questioned.

"Oh—um—"

"There you are, Tom!" It's Sybil. She and Gwen are emerging from the locker room and had clearly caught wind of Tom's predicament. Grinning, Sybil latches on to Tom's arm and presses a light kiss to Tom's cheek. Then, she turns, and, acting as if she had just spotted the woman, she says, "Oh, hey, Silvia. Can I help you?"

The woman, Silvia, pales. Obviously, she recognizes Sybil, and she's suddenly afraid that she's upset Sybil Crawley's boyfriend. "No, I'm sorry, Miss Crawley. Can I get you anything?" Tom has to bite his lip at this woman's rapid change in demeanor from coldly suspicious to nervous compliancy.

"We were just leaving, actually," Sybil says. Without another word, she leads Tom and Gwen out of the gym.

She's still clutching Tom's arm.

True to Sybil's words, the café is just down the street, and it's busier than they were expecting, so Sybil and Tom claim a table while Gwen goes up front to order for them. She insists on paying for it herself. Tom is surprised. He always assumed it was the duty of the super rich to pay for the less fortunate. Something of his surprise must register on his face, because Sybil leans forward from where she' s sitting across from him and says, "Gwen used to work for my father. She's my best friend. And she's always been a bit paranoid about the equality of our friendship, so, if allowing her to pay for lunch every so often, then I can give that to her."

Well, Tom supposes, that makes sense. Except, "Hang on. I thought you said you met at school."

Sybil laughs and leans back in her seat. Her feet knock against Tom's, and he stiffens briefly before relaxing into the oddly comforting touch. "We did," she says. "This is obviously before I moved back to the estate. We had a night class together and became study partners."

Gwen chooses that moment to return with their coffee and some sandwiches. "What are we talking about?" she asks, sitting herself down next to Sybil.

"Tom was just asking how you and I fell in love," Sybil says, taking a sip of her coffee. Tom nearly chokes at her words. He studies her face, but she is completely passive, and he finds it difficult to tell if she's even paying anymore attention to the conversation.

Looking at Gwen, Tom finds her studying him, brown eyes twinkling. "She's joking," she says, and, yes, another look at Sybil, and there's the slightest quirk of her lips. Eyes back on Gwen, and she says, "Don't worry. You'll get used to it."

It's hard to believe that, just this morning, Tom was dreading this job more than anything. And while he was by no means thrilled to be working under aristocrats, he finds that, if he'll be spending most of his time with Sybil, then it won't be so bad.

Sitting in an ordinary café with Sybil and Gwen, who, although they both technically are in a position of authority over him, keep him involved in their conversation and don't go out of their way to exclude him. It almost feels like he's back home in Ireland with his mates.

It feels nice.

They hog their table in the café for close to two hours. Sybil admits that she's taken to inventing reasons to stay out later. "It's like I'm sixteen again," she laughs. "But I can't really fault Papa. I know he's just scared for us, but—" she doesn't finish. While she had been talking, she had been digging around for her phone, and she finally found it. She pales, and Tom would swear her eyes fill with tears.

"What's wrong?" Gwen asks. Sybil thrusts her phone towards Gwen. Gwen scans the phone. "Shit."

Tom shifts his focus from Sybil to Gwen. "What is it?" Something tells him that it takes a lot more than 'girl troubles' to upset Sybil Crawley to this degree. Gwen glances at Sybil, who's struggling to regain her composure. She must sense Gwen's gaze on her, because she nods. Gwen passes the phone to Tom and he reads it.

_You may have fooled Sylvia, but you're not fooling me sweetheart_

"He always calls me that," Sybil whispers.

This morning, Mr. Bates had been sure to impress upon all of them the seriousness of the threat. That the threat wasn't just against Lord Grantham, who's used to threats on a daily basis, but against his whole family. It just didn't register with Tom how personal the threats were.

"We should go," he says. To his surprise, Sybil offers no argument. She simply rises to her feet and collects her things. The walk to the car is much more subdued than the journey earlier in the day. When they reach the car, Tom waits while Sybil hugs Gwen and he holds the door open for her. As Sybil slides into the car, she offers him a wan smile in thanks.

On the drive back to Downton, Tom says, "We'll have to show that to Mr. Bates."

"I understand." Sybil's voice is soft, distracted. Tom glances at her, and she's still pale, staring out the window. She looks lost.

"Are you alright?" Tom asks. Part of him thinks that he shouldn't be acting so familiar with her, but the other part of him reasons that Sybil's been treating him like more than an employee all day. The least he can do is return the favor.

"Not really," Sybil says, still in that soft, young voice. "This is the third time I've had to change my number," she adds. "And I try to put on a brave face, I really do, but it's so difficult."

Tom had seen a bit of that earlier. After the initial shock of the text, Sybil had gone quiet and composed herself. Now, in the solitude of the car, with only the bodyguard to see her, she can break down.

But she doesn't. And that, Tom thinks, is pretty phenomenal.

"You're amazing," Tom says. Sybil looks up, shocked. And Tom can't even chastise himself for speaking what's on his mind, because it's the truth. "Seriously, think about it," he says when Sybil continues to give him a disbelieving look. "A lot of people would've just given up by now. They would've barricaded themselves up in their house and refused to leave. But you—you go about your business as if—well, not as if nothing's wrong, exactly, but you don't let it stop you." Tom stares determinedly at the road while he talks. There's no need to watch himself make a fool of himself through Sybil's eyes. When the silence becomes unbearable, Tom risks a quick glance behind him. Just as he thought, Sybil is staring at him, but not, as he had expected, in amusement. No, she looks like she's…listening. And that, more than anything, gives him the courage to go on. "And I don't know if it helps at all, but, if I'm honest, I find you quite admirable."

Sybil's quiet for so long that Tom's afraid she's trying to find her words without breaking into laughter, but before he can worry too much, Sybil reaches forward and squeezes his shoulder, leaving her hand in place. "It does help," she says honestly. "It helps a great deal." Tom takes one hand off the wheel and covers Sybil's. A silent show of support.

Eventually, Sybil sits back, taking her hand away in the process. "Both hands on the wheel, Mr. Branson," she says, sounding far cheerier than she has since receiving the text. "I'll be pissed if, after all this, I end up dying in a traffic accident."

"Yes, Miss Crawley," Tom says.

Mr. Bates reads the text, but he tells Sybil and her father that, unless they can find a way to trace the number (highly unlikely, he admits), there's not much they can do apart from keeping a watchful eye. Sybil then disappears upstairs with her father. Tom doesn't know what they're talking about, but they sound angry, and he can only guess.

"Dinner's not for a couple of hours, Branson," Bates says. "You can have that time off."

Tom nods his gratitude and retreats to the room he shares with Alfred. Back when Downton Abbey was a fully functioning estate, these rooms were where the servants slept, and they haven't been used in over fifty years. As Tom collapses on his bed (which, to be honest, is far more comfortable than his bed at home could ever hope to be), he can't help but feel as though he's taken a step backwards. He certainly didn't works his ass off for his entire life to end up…here. As a glorified chauffeur to an admittedly lovely aristocrat.

Alfred isn't in yet. He's supposed to be one of the men on the grounds, so he'll probably be out until dinner. Tom uses the quiet to take out his notebook and put his notes in order.

By the time dinner is called, Tom takes a look at what he's accomplished. There's not much in the way of notes, but there is a drawing. Sybil, smiling. Her beautiful face illuminated from within by sheer joy.

Rolling his eyes at himself, Tom rips the page out of his notebook and puts it in his bag, out of sight. But he can't help feeling that Sybil is a woman he wouldn't mind waking up to.


End file.
